


Clarence

by darlingDesires



Category: Nomad of Nowhere (Web Series)
Genre: Fun times but not really, Necromancy, The Undertaker’s name is Morris and you can’t change my mind, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:30:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingDesires/pseuds/darlingDesires
Summary: Gently musing to himself, the undertaker imagined that when he’d open the door, he might come face-to-face with a distraught individual looking for someone to bury their dead. When he instead found a friend at the other side of the door, his unamused expression brightened to a smile. “Why-- Clarence! What brings you by at this hour?”





	Clarence

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to darkpoefan on Tumblr for the angsty idea that sprouted this!

The night was soft, empty like the skeletons of so many decomposed corpses, lying underground and dormant, as full of life as the coffins they lie in. The house he lived in was isolated from all outside contact, save for a singular horse, ridden by a man in shades of brown and red with a unique brand of excitement gleaming in his eyes, reflected by his posture and the bright smile he wore. It wasn’t entirely innocent--he still showed that childlike glee, but there were darker undertones to it, one even an untrained eye might easily be able to detect.

The horse galloped through the desert, kicking up sand behind him as he made his way to the isolated cabin at the cemetery.

Unaware of the company he would be receiving, the undertaker kept his journal out on the table, rereading the sentences he had written to encapsulate the lonely days he’d spent since his last visitor. Barely illuminated by the light flickering from the ceiling, his tired eyes were anything but closed, and his exhausted body couldn’t find the strength to lie down to rest. No matter, there were always things to do, even when one spent his whole life as far removed from the living as he was. Granted, his options were most often limited to writing, humming and singing, going for a walk, and designing gravestones, but that didn’t matter quite as much as the undertaker was used to these particular activities being the only ones he could do.

However, none of these seemed particularly interesting to him. He’d just finished writing some, and earlier he’d designed several new gravestones. It was too dark outside to go for a walk, and he wasn’t in any mood for humming. His fingers drummed against the wood as he began to think of what else he could do this late at night--there had to be  _ something _ else--and the three sharp knocks that startled him out of his thoughts were timed to be perfectly in sync with his fingernail taps.

Gently musing to himself, the undertaker imagined that when he’d open the door, he might come face-to-face with a distraught individual looking for someone to bury their dead. When he instead found a friend at the other side of the door, his unamused expression brightened to a smile. “Why-- Clarence! What brings you by at this hour?”

“Mori, I have some exciting news,” the man dressed in shades of brown and red smiled, reaching a gloved hand up to remove his hat. “May I come inside?”

“Of course,” Morris replied, further opening the door and stepping close to it to allow space for Clarence to enter. After the other had vacated the space the door might swing in, it was closed by a curious undertaker, who watched as Clarence set his hat and cloak down on one of the hooks by the door. Morris watched with bated breath as his company reached into the satchel across his body, retrieving a blue book with a royally floral pattern across the front, back, and spine of it. As if on cue, the undertaker smiled, looking from the book back to Clarence. “That’s our book.”

“I know.”

“Did you…” Morris trailed off, raising an eyebrow, knowing that his guest would understand exactly what was implied.

“I did,” Clarence replied with a smile.

“Clarence, Clarence, Clarence,” Morris shook his head with a soft laugh, bringing his palms to rest on his hips, soon repurposing his left hand into adjusting the spectacles that sat on the tip of his nose. “I didn’t think you’d find an answer so fast… but by god, you’ve done it. I can’t believe you’ve done it.”

“I… wouldn’t rejoice quite yet,” Clarence gave a soft laugh, trailing his hand over the cover of the book before opening it, finding the page he wanted to show off and turning it towards the undertaker. “In theory, it should work, but I’m not too sure about it. I haven’t tested it yet--since it was your idea to try and train my magic for necromancy, I wanted to try it out with you first.”

“I have faith in you,” Morris nodded, looking over the page. “It’s amazing you can use these symbols and understand them, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I suppose it’s just a magic user’s gift.”

“You say that every time I show you my notes,” Clarence noticed.

“It never ceases to amaze me--heck, I wish I could perform magic like you, but I know it’s better off saving the talents for those who’d use them,” Morris joked, smiling. “Now, what do I need to do?”

“Find me a body--preferably fresh--and I’ll see if I’ve made any progress whatsoever. I have faith that won’t be a hard task for you,” Clarence joked.

“You know, I have one sittin’ out back that for one reason or another I  _ knew _ would come in handy,” The undertaker winked, saying a few words more before slipping off out the door, “I’ll go fetch her for ya.”

When he came back, he carried a large, lumpy burlap sack over one shoulder. With one hand, Morris closed his journal and pushed it aside, making room to heave the bag down onto the table. Slipping the bag off of the corpse was the easy part, fighting back the giddiness--or maybe it was fear--in his gut was the hard part.

“Do you know her name?” Clarence asked, looking over the lifeless body, still and cold, lacking the breath he had grown so fond of.

“Well--no, I don’t think I do,” Morris replied, turning the sack around in his hands to look for a tag. “There might be somethin’ somewhere on here… or now that I think about it, I might’ve wrote it down to engrave into the headstone. Why’d you need her name?”

“Names are power,” Clarence said simply, tucking some hair out of the woman’s face. “It makes the process much easier if I know who I’m commanding. At least… I’d assume so. Gives me more of a sense of things, y’know?”

Morris, who’d been flipping through pages of his journal, landed on a page with a description and a skilled caricature of the woman. “Her name’s Jezebel, looks like.”

“What a pretty name,” Clarence commented. “Jezebel… it’s fitting.”

“Is there anythin’ else I can do for ya before we get started?” The undertaker asked eagerly--perhaps a little  _ too _ eagerly for the given circumstance.

“I… don’t think so,” Clarence answered, placing his finger under the first of the words scrawled in the notebook, tight in his grip. He breathed in, closed his eyes, and exhaled, centering himself before he began to focus his mind into a whole, concentrating.  _ Jezebel. Jezebel. Jezebel. _

The next thing Morris knew, his friend lie on the floor, without a pulse and without breath in his lungs. Death had never seemed so cruel and demanding to the undertaker as it had at that moment--taking all he had to look forward to in life, all for attempting to do something unheard of for  _ years _ . Calling out his name did no good--Clarence still lie there, motionless and breathless, and all it did was cause the undertaker’s throat to become raspy and sore. The world was silent, even among his screams, muffled by what felt like cotton stuffing his ears and stuffing his brain. Morris took the book from Clarence’s tight grip, scanning the page desperately, cursing himself with tears in his eyes as he found himself unable to understand the symbols and writing excitedly scrawled across the page.

As the reality began to settle in, Morris realized that there was an in-between time, after Clarence closed his eyes but before he dropped dead. He spoke something, and Jezebel twitched, but a crack of what seemed like black lightning sparking from Clarence’s body lead to the collapse of his dear friend. He dropped the book to the floor, grabbing Clarence by the shoulders in a last attempt at waking him from what he so desperately wanted to believe was a nap.  _ It’s not fair. It’s not fair. _

 

Many years later and the night was just as soft, empty like the bottle of whiskey on top of the desk, and as full of life as the dried out, sun-bleached skull seated next to it. Broken like the undertaker’s hopes, mended together by stitches of insanity, a temporary madness becoming ever more grounded and permanent with each sip of the firey liquid that made him believe again.

“Some day, Clarence. Some day…”


End file.
